As Romeo to Juliet
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: He hadn't tried to actually explain this in a very long time. Not since Mycroft. Not since the time when he thought everyone had a beloved object and had simply asked his brother which his was. {No, Myc, that's just a toy. I don't mean what's your favorite plaything... I mean...} And his world changed. PROMPT: Sherlock is object-sexual (romantic). Jim steals his beloved object.
1. Advertisement

**Found: Violin, created in late 19th century, lovely, responsive Strad copy. I'm sure it misses its owner. To claim,**  
**contact Galatea Polendina. Box 5289.**

It hadn't taken them long to find Moriarty's advert. It was in the Lost Items section, just as Sherlock had said it would be. Something about the wording was off, but John couldn't for the life of him figure out exactly how, though he had been staring at it for a good part of the past hour. He looked up, surprised to find the detective not in his standard thinking pose, but pacing around the room. He hadn't seen him this agitated since he'd torn apart the flat searching for cigarettes, just before Henry Knight broke the tension with a case on the Moor. Sherlock abruptly stopped and collapsed fiercely onto his chair. He brought his fingers up to their usual position for just a moment before sliding his head down and catching his index fingers in the corners of his eye sockets alongside his nose, his thumbs wedged beneath his chin. His eyes were squeezed shut. It looked as if he was breathing into his cupped palms.

Jim Moriarty had broken in once before, leaving video surveillance equipment on the bookshelf and a eerie video on John's blog, but he hadn't touched anything then. Certainly hadn't taken anything.

"So, do we wait on a ransom note? Get the coordinates and go on a covert rescue mission with full backup? Storm the premises, rescue the damsel in distress." John grinned. Sherlock resumed his pacing. The grin faded to a look of genuine concern.

"I know, I know, it helps you think. Well, you will just have to think without it for now. Till you can get it back, that is. We _will_, you know. Get it back." After more silence than John was comfortable with, he continued. "Not having it won't stop you from thinking. You didn't have your violin with you when you were in Baskerville, or come to think of it, in Tibet, or in Serbia. And you managed to continue to strategise and dismantle Moriarty's web."

"But he was _safe_, John! When I was away, he was here and he was safe!" he blurted out. Sherlock froze for a few seconds before storming past John, through the kitchen, to his room.

John followed.

Genderising a musical instrument wasn't, _that_ weird. People genderized things all the time...cars, for example. His dad would always say the ole girl needed something or another. But this, this was...different. And not just that the gender was "wrong" since nearly every time someone referred to a musical instrument, it was as a female. He spoke to a closed door.

"Sherlock? I'm sorry. Your music is obviously very important to your state of mind, and if you would like to purchase another violin, I'm sure that we could just..."

"I won't be needing another violin, thank you. I've had that one since I was a child."

"Well, all the more reason to get a brand new one, eh?"

His attempt at humour was met with stony silence.

"Look, I'm just kidding, you know. I am well aware of the fact that older instruments often have better craftsmanship, sound, value... I just was a bit surprised by the..."

Sherlock reappeared in the doorway. "By the sentiment, you mean."

"Yes."

"Did it not occur to you that having a burglar in our home might be distressing?"

"Well, just saying, he's been in here before, and your reaction was less...severe. He's got your violin. It appears he hasn't taken anything else. We will just contact this Italian lady whose working as a front for him and get it back."

Sherlock sighed. "There is no Italian lady, John. It's a message."

"The name?"

"Read it again. Just the name."

John looked back at the notice. "Galatea Polendina."

"Pygmalion. He was...not interested in women, but fell in love with the statue he created. The statue Galatea. Polendina was the nickname townspeople used to mock Geppeto in 'Pinocchio'."

"More fairytales."

Sherlock was about to speak when a text alert chimed. "Lestrade has a case."

"Great! Just the thing to get your mind off of this while they continue to track down who paid for the advert. Too bad your violin doesn't have a GPS-enabled phone."

Sherlock managed to make his lips curve upwards at the corners of his mouth. He counted himself fortunate John was already off looking for his coat and wasn't paying too close attention. Not that he ever did. A crime scene... he should be heading out, bounding with enthusiasm. _That's what I'll do then. I would normally want to do this. It's just... a missing thing. _"You're right, John. I'm sure it will be recovered in good time if we leave them to their tracking," he said, putting on his gloves. _Forgive me _.


	2. Woman late 20s

"Woman. Late 20s. Strangled."

"Yeah. We did get that far," Lestrade muttered under his breath, hopefully inaudibly. He sighed.

Lestrade didn't really need Sherlock on this one, but when he gave John an update on the difficulties they were having determining Moriarty's whereabouts, he had flat out said that anything that would get Sherlock out of their front room would be "very much appreciated, thanks." He braced himself for the onslaught of Sherlock in a bad mood for a good reason.

She was splayed out on the sofa with a bright blue silk scarf loosely draped around her neck. _One wine glass, but wood of the mahogany veneer table moist with droplets of condensation, so...two glasses... one removed. Hastily. Exceedingly tastefully-decorated flat. Superior quality clothing, but scarf is all wrong._

Certainly it wasn't color-coordinated, and the rest of the woman's outfit was, right down to the subtle reddish tint of the hosiery. Sherlock sniffed the wine glass. There was a slight odour, largely masked by that of the wine itself. He sniffed the scarf too. Musty. He vanished into the bedroom.

After observing the details and formulating his hypothesis, he would sometimes listen. He'd never try to ask (that was rarely fruitful, communication was seldom two-way, and when it was that was... special) but occasionally, if the situation was dire, an object would, not talk, but emote. To anyone that could potentially hear, he assumed. Like a scream into a void.

He used to think this was simply projection, when an object suggested details to him, but eventually, he realised that projection and objects tapping into his own subconscious were essentially the same thing. Ideas would enter his mind first and then he would hear them from the inside. Whatever pedantic label you wanted to place on the experience... inspiration from the ether, the language of the muse... it was impossible to determine if the origin was internal or external. As Grand-mere Vernet used to say, art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms. He wasn't, in fact, delusional, which came as a bit of a relief, since there had been times he hadn't been entirely sure. It was just the way that sort of communication worked.

He'd been denying the sensations for longer than even he could recall. Once it no longer made him question his sanity, he began chalking it up to a far too vague mysticism, unworthy of serious consideration, until he stumbled upon theoretical subatomic physics while shamming his way through a conference in Switzerland. He was there trailing an attendee and listening to just enough of Nick Herbert's lecture on Quantum Animism to be able to pose as a physicist, but he had found it intriguing and unexpectedly relevant to his personal situation. Consciousness was essentially "energy", which can neither be created nor destroyed, but can readily transfer from conduit to conduit amongst the subnuclear realm of the elementary particles (quarks, gluons, leptons). Particles which were essentially the building blocks of all existence. Any object's inner life is connected to the inner life of its observer, and their potentias influence and enhance each other. In short, yes, he truly could sense things from inanimate objects as if they were alive, because, on a subatomic level, who was to say they weren't? He was neither crazy nor relying on pure mysticism. Science had got his back.

He knew what to look for; he focused on the items that seemed out of place. The wine glass. The scarf. He cleared his mind to give them room to speak. This time, the scarf did.

It was confused. It didn't belong there.  
He already knew why.


	3. Freak

More important than this remarkably dull case, he had to decide how much he was willing to disclose. How much he needed to clarify. Moriarty knew- the sole item he chose to take and the alias had made that perfectly obvious. He was mocking him. Sherlock didn't really care what a crazed psychopath thought of him. There was only one person whose opinion he cared about.  
And he wanted his beloved back.

He could lessen the impact of Moriarty's inevitable disclosure if John already knew. This was a risky proposition. They'd been through all kinds of hell together. Sherlock had faked his death for John, had actually died for John, and then had... lived for John. If anyone could understand, well, no that was expecting too much... to understand. If anyone could _accept him_ as he was, it would be John.

Many times he had considered mentioning it. Post-case, when he felt infallible, he longed to tell him. Imagined explaining it. Imagined the response. Something like: 'Maybe your skills cause you to notice things, Sherlock. It's your bored brain reaching out for more input to save itself, tuning into things others simply don't. I'm not dispensing judgement. I've seen some pretty odd things happen in the field and I don't pretend to understand how everything in the world works.' His relationship, that was another thing entirely, though he did occasionally feel brazen enough to attempt disclosing that as well. Sherlock sighed.

The last time someone (Sally) skirted the edges of this discovery on their own, she had called him a freak. _I know your lips aren't moving, but I could swear it looks like you are actually trying to talk to that knife!? _Up until that time, he had almost considered her a friend. Their sardonic wit meshed well, until it was directed at him. Anderson had just gone off nonstop on the unprofessionalism of his contaminating a crime scene by refusing to wear a hazmat suit...a barrier between him and the objects at the scene. If he _could_ pick up on anything, he wasn't about to hamper it by presenting any emotional or physical obstacles.

He hadn't tried to actually explain this in a very long time. Not since Mycroft. Not since the time when he thought everyone had a beloved object and had simply asked his brother which his was. _No, Myc, that's just a toy. I don't mean what's your favorite plaything... I mean..._ And his world changed.

"Two glasses, one removed, note the mark on the table. The wine is drugged. I highly doubt there are fingerprints on the glass, but it is possible. Search nearby dumpsters for a blue silk tie similar in colour to this scarf. You might find a wine glass, too. Interview male coworkers, same age as victim, possibly younger. Hipster fashion sense. I'd check those working in IT first."

"I suppose asking how is..."

"I don't run a remediary school for detectives, Lestrade. And I have far more pressing concerns than a four. Good day." John followed him out.

In the cab, John continued to gaze at him with a mixture of wonder and admiration.

"The scarf was wrapped oddly, but the fibers were key. Very close to the same colour and material as what she was strangled with, but not precisely right. She was not originally wearing a scarf. The colour scheme was all wrong, and that entire flat was perfectly coordinated. It wasn't as if she had brought in a fashion designer either... even the fresh flowers were the right colour. Everything she was wearing was red with white accents. Adding blue just made her look like a ridiculous parody of the flag. The scarf was musty, was removed from the back of her closet and wrapped around her neck, the murder weapon was removed from the room, the same colour and fabric would mean bright blue silk menswear which suggests a tie and a rather garish one at that, so a bolder fashion statement... a younger man of eccentric taste." _And the scarf also told me it didn't belong there. But it didn't matter. I already knew that. _Even in his own head that confession sounded worthy of Sebastian's dismissive "parlour tricks" comment.


	4. Bells

The four hadn't helped all that much.

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock claimed the sofa, taking up its entire length with his wiry frame, and faced away from the room.

"Tea?"

"No, thanks," muttered into the cushions.

"Your, uh, skull used to help you think too, right? Before I was around?"

"Not the same thing, John. My... violin... is... Well, my violin has been with me since my childhood, as I said," rolling on his back.

"Thought for a moment you were going to say your violin is your best friend. Book a spot for you on Jeremy Kyle. 'My friend the skull is jealous of my friend the violin. I've known the violin for longer, but my skull sometimes helps me with my work. They seemed to get along just fine, until I brought the violin some chocolates for Valentine's Day and didn't bring the skull anything, because it wasn't really _that_ type of friendship with the skull, but the violin had a certain...'"

Sherlock turned over and stared at him. It was the same expression he had had when Lestrade first searched the flat for drugs years ago. There was something there... and John knew he was being particularly obtuse. He locked eyes with Sherlock and began to sort through his confusion.

"Boys! A package!"

Sherlock jumped up as Mrs Hudson came up the stairs carrying a small, brown parcel. "It came with the regular post. No special van or anything, I made sure to check." She saw them stare, first at the packet and then at each other, placed it down on the table, apologised for the intrusion, and left quickly. John crossed to the table and eyed it without touching.

"G. Polendina, Sherlock. Should we have it x-rayed?"

"No. He wouldn't do that. Wouldn't play two games simultaneously. I highly doubt he would leave any clues on the paper, either." Sherlock walked over to the window, turning his entire body toward the street. "Go ahead and open it."

"It's a wi... it's a violin string. Why on earth would he...? We already know he's got it. He's treating it like a bloody hostage. Like he's mailing you a finger or something. Why...?"

Sherlock's voice was unnaturally strong and clear. "He _is_. Go ahead. Ask."

John wanted to play dumb. To say "ask what?" But he knew damn well what he wanted to ask and Sherlock knew, too. Still, John remained silent.

"Oh _come_ _on_. You... fine. Fine, I'll just tell you. Yes. Yes to what you are thinking and not asking. Yes, it is a relationship. It is a sexual relationship. Well, romantic, actually, but it can be more...sexual when I... I don't expect you to understand."

"Of course I understand. Lots of people have fetishes. It's not really particularly... well, it is unusual, but not _that_ unusual."

"No, John, it's not really like that. It's not a fetish. A fetish is a substitute for a person. It makes you think of the person using it. A fetish is a supplement. This... is a relationship... not a thing to be used to conjure up something else. Objects having lifeforce is an ancient and, somewhat innate concept, which has inspired countless folktales over the centuries. It's in the collective consciousness. From Frosty the Snowman to Quasimodo and his bells." Sherlock continued to gaze into the street. "'He loved them, caressed them, talked to them, understood them. From the carillon in the steeple of the transept to the great bell over the doorway, they all shared his love. To give the great bell in marriage to Quasimodo was to give Juliet to Romeo.'"

John shook his head. "The man who knows nothing of the solar system is quoting Victor Hugo at me."

"I keep what is important. Understanding one's sexuality is extremely important."

"Oh God, Sherlock. I'm... I'm so sorry." John flushed crimson and went silent before attempting to make some sort of reparations with "I didn't think..." Sherlock's expression would have been a glare if it wasn't for the pain beneath the surface. "Yeah. That's pretty much it. I didn't think. And the referencing fairytales- Pinnochio, Pygmalion... so, he knew all along?"

"Most definitely."

"And he wanted you to... give him up," John swallowed. "So you wouldn't have to explain yourself to me?"

Sherlock looked down. "Yes. I think that was Moriarty's ideal outcome. Or, explain myself, keep him, and lose you." Sherlock turned away from the window to face John. "But it's not the first time he has underestimated Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is it?"

John bristled. "'H', please. Just because I was coerced into putting it on the bloody invitations doesn't mean I give anyone permission to use the damned thing! Does he have a name?"

"You mean my... no. No. I couldn't be positive of what it would be. And I wouldn't want to be wrong about that... if he even thinks in terms of names. So, no."

"We'll get him home, Sherlock." John said. His voice was confident and strong. John placed his hand on his shoulder. He leaned toward him just slightly, took a deep breath, then turned back to continue to gaze at the street.


	5. Clay

Lestrade had (despite, as Sherlock was not the least bit hesitant in informing him, alarming incompetence) tracked down the newspaper employee who took the information for the ad, and she had vaguely described the man who came in to place it. Came in. Not phoned in. Sweatshirt, blue eyes and close-cut, dark hair. Seemed polite. Called her Miss even though she was certainly a Ma'am. She thought he was kind of cute. They even had a name and signature on a form, for Christ's sake. Vincent Spaulding. Here they were, concentrating on phone records and internet submissions, never expecting that someone would have went down to the office in person. He was inclined to agree with Sherlock's assessment of his department's skill, but, honestly, _in person_? They made a rough timeline, and Mycroft simply checked the CCTV and found him. Easy to identify, too. 'Vincent Spaulding' was John Clay, forger... apparently one of Jim Moriarty's newer friends, with an extensive criminal record in his own right. Mycroft followed his path from the newspaper back to an office building... easy peasy.

Lestrade wanted to know. Why was it so easy? Sherlock was hesitant to explain, muttered something about how it wasn't about making it difficult to stage a retrieval, that the master plan involved his relying on others to accomplish it. Lestrade didn't care if he had taken only a biro; he was going to do his best to make sure that biro got recovered. But he wasn't about to put anyone in harm's way over it. Least of all, Sherlock. It seemed like an obvious trap to him, though Sherlock insisted that it was not. It didn't make sense, but Lestrade was accustomed to things which involved Sherlock Holmes not making sense.

They had found the IT guy responsible for the earlier murder, and he still couldn't figure out how he had managed to profile him so accurately.


	6. Everybody Loves a Love Story

**Beautiful craftsmanship. All you ever needed to do was respond to the advertisment, Darling. Then, I'd have had someone bring it down to the newspaper. I would love to see that tearful reunion. I bet the reporters there would, too. Everybody loves a love story. Jim Moriarty X**

Sherlock ignored the text. After some deliberation, he decided to show it to John... though he still felt uneasy about Lestrade. If Scotland Yard was involved, there would be no way to limit the publicity. In spite of his insistence that the people who really mattered in his life would understand, Sherlock refused to believe John. He had only to look as far as his older brother for confirmation.

"I doubt he does truly understand, Sherlock, but, you know we... we care about you. We... love you, and it doesn't matter."

Sherlock simply shook his head.

"How long ago was that, Sherlock? Has Mycroft said one word about it, ever? Even when he was sorting through that footage? Tracing Clay's steps? And he didn't even tell Lestrade what he found, so the decision could be made by you. Even though he probably considers your relationship, well, impossible, he's doing nothing to prevent it."

"I am well aware that the overwhelming majority of people would consider a romantic relationship with an inanimate object impossible. I wouldn't waste my time trying to convince anyone that is not the case."

"Which would imply that, you don't consider it impossible? Or that you don't consider it...him...an inanimate object?"

Sherlock cocked his head and smiled at the perceptiveness of the question.

"In Quantum Animism, everything is made up of energy... constantly moving, vibrating, spinning, acting and reacting... and energy is life. All things at that level, every system, has an inner life, a conscious center, from which it directs and observes its action. To be an Animist is to believe something "alive" that others would dismiss as "inanimate"... and a part of a greater, living biosphere. Universe, even. Objects are made of the same things that I am made of... though it's certainly true they communicate in different ways."

"So you do communicate. I... had wondered."

"It's not one-sided. And he doesn't much like Mycroft either." Sherlock permitted himself a quick smile.

"I'm not surprised, given the fact that all the times they've been in the same room, he has tended to be rather... discordant."

The smile grew. "Your observational skills are better than I had anticipated, John."

"But he likes Christmas? Just going by the brightness of the carols."

"More than I do. Happy memories."

"Memories?"

"Flashes of images. He is older than I. Victorian Christmases. Dickensian. Always gaslights and snow-covered streets."

"In England?"

"Mostly, yes." Sherlock examined John with an intensity generally reserved for experiments. "This. This conversation. Doesn't bother you?"

"Surprisingly, no."

Sherlock felt ridiculously happy. It was short-lived, though, as the reality of the situation came to the fore again. He fought to maintain his composure, eyes glassy.

"Moriarty doesn't want to kill me, John. I'd be safe if I just walked down to the office and got him. I've thought about it numerous times. There'd be photographs, but it'd be worth it. To have him safe. It might not affect the work as much as I think. I could just be viewed as... highly eccentric."

"We know where he is, Sherlock. We know Moriarty is intent on seeing your reunion. I say, let's not let him win this round. Let me bring him back to you."

**So, Galatea and I were wondering if your doctor will be considering a daring rescue. Bit of an extreme gesture to retrieve a Tottenham Court Road pawnshop purchase, no? Is it a bit like picking up take-away for you, or does he know just how special this particular dish is? Sorry, sweetheart. Only the owner can file a claim for lost items. D: Your Pal Jim**


	7. Disguise

Already in position across from the newspaper office, Sherlock gave a terse nod to John before picking up the phone.

**On my way. SH**

**Newsroom hallway. Second floor. I'll be there, with bells and brass knobs on. -Jim**

No time to lose, then. He needed to be seen entering the building by any henchmen positioned on the outside, but not seen exiting, and he had to get there before Moriarty. He was counting on his adversary's need to make a late, more theatrical entrance, (after Sherlock would have been building up anxiety waiting). He was confident he wouldn't show until his men were in place, but perhaps they already were. He wore the most incongruous outfit (compared to his normal dress) that could still fit under his clothing... shorts and a tank top layered underneath his usual tailored shirt and trousers... a bright yellow head sweatband, trainers, gym socks and a full plastic water bottle shoved into his coat pockets. He was grateful he had long ago strategised a greatcoat as a sort of visual trademark which had a dual purpose of concealing all sorts of items.

In building. Good. He headed to the lift and pushed the button just shy of the top floor (there might be some of Moriarty's agents on the top, searching for roof access). He popped out a frosted plastic ceiling tile and discarded his current wardrobe within the lift, next to the light fixture, relying on people's natural hesitancy to look straight up, then donned the replacement footwear and band. He exited the lift and took the stairs back down at a run, wetting his hair slightly with the water bottle so he would look like any other sweaty jogger when he exited the building.

Once outside, he bent down to stretch his calves, then took a gulp of the water, holding the bottle at a high angle, close to his face. He stayed in place long enough for anyone observing from the roof to notice, and subsequently dismiss, him. Then he went to the Underground station across the street, drinking water as he walked, looking exhausted from his theoretical run.

At the station, he grabbed a newspaper, turned to Sport, and sat on a bench, waiting. He gave his bollocks a quick scratch for good measure, and concentrated on being as un-Sherlock Holmes as possible.


	8. Rescue

When Jim entered the newspaper office, violin case in hand, he wasn't the least bit surprised to find John Watson leaning against the wall in the hallway, his arms crossed.

"I suggest you give me the case."

"Oh, Johnny. Or else? I already told Sherlock. This particular item needs to be hand-delivered," he sang the rest of the sentence, "with love, from me, to you."

"The streets have been blocked around this building. You can't just duck into a car and drive off. I will follow you right out of here and I will get what I came for. If I have to injure you fatally in the process, so be it."

"I always considered the possibility of a no-show. And I don't think you'd harm me. First off, because it is the middle of the afternoon in the heart of London, but, even more importantly, because you _owe_ me. If I wasn't back on the scene, we both know your bestie's plane wouldn't have turned around, he would have toasted the new year with vodka in Siberia, and you would have never seen him again." John broke eye contact. "So. You will let me out of this building unharmed. Just so you know, laser trackers are terribly difficult to see in the daylight, but we both know there's no good reason to take out the queen when the match has just started. This is just me having a little fun. I will walk to the Underground, and you will let me."

Moriarty headed out of the building as John trailed behind. When he had descended the steps, John didn't follow.

Sherlock watched as Moriarty and the case boarded train number 347 on the District Line, northbound. Once the car was in motion, he dropped the paper on the bench and headed outside.

On the train, Jim glanced toward the back of the car to be sure that Clay had followed him. Once confirmed, he ignored him. A dark-haired woman was going from car to car, frantically calling for a child named Marcus. Jim's man eyed her suspiciously until she returned, pulling what must have been Marcus by the arm. Jim scrutinised each person in the compartment; he didn't have Sherlock's level of skill, but he was able to spot someone armed easily enough. Finding no one, he relaxed.

Well, home then. He was sorely disappointed that all he met with was John Watson's pseudo bravery and stupid theatrics.

The train didn't leave the stop. Instead, the conductor announced that the car was being replaced, and all passengers should exit at this time. Jim Moriarty didn't move a muscle as the other passengers shuffled past. He sat, waited, and spoke out loud as they disembarked, like a stewardess thanking passengers for the flight. "I was only trying to get Sherlock to play. So much fuss over this." He tapped the case. "Honestly. I'm just trying to be helpful. Secrets can be so toxic to your friends and family. Sherlock needs to" he grinned broadly, "let it go."

Mycroft came into view and took the seat next to Jim. Clay sat across from the two.

"I believe you have something which belongs to my brother."

"Pleasure to see you again. Friends and family present and accounted for and very much aware. Just as well. I'm not really sure what to do with this old thing. Give him his love, would you?"


	9. Reunion

Sherlock was once again dressed in his usual attire. "He's safe." _He'ssafehe'ssafe_.

"I've checked the contents of the case. Everything is present and accounted for. I didn't touch anything inside, just a visual confirmation. The string, of course, is missing. Everything else appears to be... unharmed." Mycroft placed the case on the sofa. He held out a small paper bag. "New E-string. And new rosin. It was cracked."

Sherlock's hand moved slowly as he accepted the offering. He was about to speak when Mycroft nodded, turned and headed out the door. He stood there for a moment at the doorway before retreating to his chair.

"John, I... have not been forthright. I apologise for the deception. I was, perhaps, a bit more protective of myself than I needed to be. I'm... not attracted to the violin."

"I can see it in your eyes, Sherlock. It's all fine, you don't have to hide anything. I don't think I can truly relate, but, I can at least try to understand. I'm so sorry I mocked you before. And when I thought I understood, I really didn't. I sometimes run across similar situations at conferences." Sherlock frowned. "No, hear me out. In Dublin, they mentioned there were over 500 types of paraphilias, all seeing the world through whatever sexual lens, and nearly all of them are considered perfectly healthy. If it isn't a challenge to consent, it's all fine, and I mean that."

"I appreciate that, John, but, I'll show you. Would you hand me my violin?"

John paused a moment, puzzled, before opening the case and doing so.

Sherlock took it, and began an aggressive pizzicato, holding the violin like a small guitar. "Still trying to process. It does help me think."

He watched them together for a moment. It wasn't what he'd expected. If this was his lover, it sure didn't seem like it. Was he witnessing a quarrel?

He continued to play as he spoke. "I need to think about...what to say. I failed him. If I had used extra precautions, treated him differently than other valuables in flat, I would have just drawn more attention to him. As it was, he still wasn't safe. The string...he came so close."

He carried the violin back to the case lying on the sofa. Still holding the violin in one hand, he opened it, and his hand seemed to shake slightly as he raised the top. He placed the violin in the case gently, and then crouched down, staring into the still-opened case. Bringing himself to eye level, with his bow.

It wasn't an expression he was used to seeing, the look on Sherlock's face as he lifted the clip which anchored him. Fear, remorse, gratitude. He ran a finger down the length of the wood and stopped. He meticulously examined the frog, then the tip, adjusted the ferrule, and when satisfied all appeared to be in working order, he glided his fingers as if he was touching each individual strand of hair, though he was careful not to make actual contact. John got the impression he might not like that type of touch, or ... maybe he wasn't ready for it yet? He was definitely intruding on the scene. As he turned away and ascended the stairs, he heard a quiet "Thank you, John." He chose not to respond.

On the way up, he heard music...tentative and uncertain. Then more confident. Flowing. Until finally it was smooth and harmonious and beautiful and... private. He went up to his room and closed the door.


End file.
